White Walls of Eola
by 25-faeranHeight
Summary: After being sent into Eola, Samara thinks back to her past memories and reconsiders her views on everything that's happened. These Eola based stories seem to be the new trend, don't they?


_White Walls of Eola_

Disclaimer of The Ring

Focus.

_What will you see?_

What I see right now are the white walls that surround me; white walls that imprison me and keep me away from all social and public lifeforms. They say I'm just here to rest and to get better, but I can feel them watching me. I've even seen the camera taping me a few times while I was glancing around at my surroundings and wondering why I was even there in the first place.

_I'm just confused._

My father had reported to the staff that I haven't been sleeping properly and that I've been driving my mother crazy. They said I'll get all the sleep I need here, because my lack of sleep is what's been dementing me; and so if I finally fall asleep again, I'll stop being so _strange_. They say when I sleep, _it will stop_.

_It will never stop. I can feel their eyes on me every second of the day._

I recall from memoirs when I was younger, my mother would sometimes sing a little lullaby to me, and smile when I watched her intently while I'm perched upon her lap. I don't really remember exactly how old I was back then, but it was probably a very long time ago because back then I only started walking properly.

I remember that my father would spend most of his days in the barn with the horses; sometimes he would spend whole days in there, just watching them, petting them, feeding them, _talking to them_. My father never talks to me; the only words he would say in my direction would be the occasional, 'Hello.' and then he would depart again.

Little does he know that whenever he's not around the horses, they start going wild and nay to the moon like wolves. However, I seem to be the only one who's concerned about these sounds because my father would deny their unholy racket the next morning while I'm struggling to keep myself awake. The horses are keeping me awake all night, and he thinks nothing of it. My mother, who I'm sure hears them too, only sits there in bitter silence.

_Sometimes I wish they would just go away._

Why can't they just stop yelping during the night and let me get to sleep? I haven't been able to sleep properly for weeks because of them; and I think they know that it's only me who's bothered by it. They know that I'm awake at all hours because they just won't stop. They know that their echoes are slowly tearing me apart.

Again, I can recall another memory where my father had been grooming the horses in the barn. Since I wasn't on friendly terms with the mammals, I rarely went there while he was with them unless it was really nessecary. I had drawn a picture at the time, this was when I started forcing my repressed feelings into sketches that were drawn with chalk, pencil and sometimes charcoal. I called to him, "_Daddy_," and he only looked at me once before grunting in disinterest and returning his full attention back to the horses.

"_Daddy_," I chimed again, hoping to catch his interest. This time, it takes him another ten seconds before he finally turns his head around to face me. I remember him reluctantly saying the words, '_What is it, Samara_?' before I would smile slightly in triumphant. I had shown him my sketch; it was a picture of Mother, Father, and me, and of course, the barn and the house. Of course, it was badly drawn because I only started drawing at the time.

He looked at me once and muttered more to himself than to me, "Very good," and then yet again he turned away from me and towards the horses who so dearly needed his attention far more than his own child. At the time I was pleased that he had looked at my drawing, but now when I actually rethink it; he hadn't looked at it at all.

Yes, he had seen the stick people and the uneven lines that were roughly symbolising three people, a house and a barn. But he didn't see what it really was; he didn't see that it was a drawing that had really meant something to me, and he just dismissed it like it was something he could see any other day. Any other day without his child.

_I wish he would notice me._

Sometimes he wouldn't even look at me. Well, actually, it was most of the time where he would pretend I was never there and he was actually having a daily conversation with someone else who he could dismiss and talk to another day without a second thought. Unlike the horses, who he does acknowledge almost every minute of the day, I'm just someone who he could see _any other day_. I'm just the child who he could talk to _later_, and not _now_.

I had confided in my drawings and whenever the horses decided to scorn me again, I would sketch all through the night, pretending I was the girl I had defined within my potraits. A girl whose father had noticed her, and wouldn't neglect her and rate her second best compared to his beloved horses who did nothing for him. Still, the night's were always so still and so surreal; and if it wasn't for the tremble of the horses' impatience and something of a rebellion, I would believe I was somewhere else, and not here. Anywhere else except here.

Had I known that being alive would involve living in the shadow of an inhuman mammal, I would rather have not existed at all. And since that was my father outlined through and through; let me describe the important details about my mother, the woman who had stuck by my side, but never spoke against my father; the boss.

My mother was a kind woman who had never discriminated me no matter how strange I had behaved around her, and she would always be the one who would convince my father to '_Stop being so rash_,' and '_Never to speak of our daughter like she's some sort of freak_!' so I could cope with his inhumane eerie silence whenever in my presence.

On a regular basic, my mother would take me with her whenever she went somewhere to walk in privacy and away from the public eye. She has heard the rumours that my father had passed around, saying that I had driven his horses to go insane in the first place and that I never slept; so she had to make sure no one's around to comment on those rumours and probably ask for a live interview about it. I don't mind that she doesn't want me to be seen by the public; in fact, I quite like it, because now I won't have to worry about making bad impressions.

I know for a fact that my mother loved to sing. Whenever I was sad, she would sing me a song to try to cheer me up, and whenever I was hurt, she would dress my wounds and tell me tales about little girls who hurt themselves and how they end up in rich families with wealthy husbands and they live happily ever after. I remember those little tales of stereotypical pretend where she would explain life like it were a mere fairy tale without an end.

And I suppose she was right about the never ending theory because unlike in tales like Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella, life doesn't stop just when everything goes right for you and there is never a happily ever after. In reality, life will continue even after everything is finally all right again, and it will keep going so that things can still go wrong years on from then, and things will continue to go wrong with the occasional '_Everything's all right again_,' and then after all of that, you die and everything's over, so it's not really a happy ending.

Weeks after the whole horse incident, I had been sent here so I could be monitored and interviewed every day for the past few weeks. I don't even know if it was just weeks that I've been in this white cube without flaws; for all I know it could have been months, and perhaps it's nearing to a full year since I've first arrived here, 'demented.'

I've been put on medication for a week or so, now. Only sometimes I take the medication whenever I know that the camera is making sure that I do, and other times when I'm somewhat out of it's view-point, I hide the pills so I can use them another time and won't have to be violated over and over again by dirty drugs.

I have been having the daily interview where the man or woman would question me about my contentment, and would sometimes give me the eventful question, 'Do you want to kill anyone, Samara?' as though expecting me to either be in denial and behave like an innocent angel, or reveal my secret desire to feel someone's life being lost within my grasp and to crave for the scent of human blood caked in my hands.

At first I would answer, 'No.'

But since then, they kept asking the same thing over and over until it's become a cycle; like a ring. And I know the more they keep watching me and monitoring my every movement, that they're slowly driving me into my unrepairable breakdown, where I can never return to the way I once was. So after that, I would either not answer their question at all or I would sometimes say the occasional, 'Yes, I do.'

For the time being, I am currently being interviewed yet again for the third time this week. This time the interviewer is a young man who is probably in his twenties. He's looking at me with slight pity, and I can tell he's one of the ones who has either been watching me, or has recieved information from someone who had been watching me while I was pacing around in my little flawless white room. The room of clean, clear thoughts.

"How are you feeling today, Samara?" he asks, and I don't know what to say. I think back to my room where I had only recently been let out of, and I wonder why it was only white. White; the colour of purity and innocence that symbolised nothing but silence and untold little tales. Little _white_ lies, the little tales of repressed disturbance.

I look at him blankly, and brush a lock of ebony hair out of my face so I can see him clearly. And it's times like this, I wonder why I even try to understand what's happening to me. I tried to understand why my father had always shunned me without thought and had pushed me away like I was an unholy burden; and my mother would only watch in silence while he continued to judge me where I stood. I wondered why I attempted to understand why the horses wouldn't leave me alone, and wouldn't stop shrieking their cries in the night; and why I couldn't stop my pacing hand, back and forth creating a sketch that would form into an artwork my father would never like.

So I just say the first words that form through my lips, after all of this, "It just won't _stop_. It will never... _stop_."

* * *

_**S**o_, what do you think? Good? Bad? Give me your thoughts! Pleaaaase! _(Puppy eyes)_


End file.
